


Schiamachy

by AshCommaMan



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Arguments, Bedsharing, First Kiss, Firsts, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Angst, Mutual Pining, relationships are complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22555240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshCommaMan/pseuds/AshCommaMan
Summary: Schiamachy: noun. An act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary opponentThey had walked across centuries, strode through millennia; it hardly required notice. And yet, they got swept up in it. They had spent so long among humans — living with them, learning about them, pretending to be the same as them — that it was hard to remember that they didn’t belong here, that everything about this, about their Arrangement, was wrong. It was against their very natures, and yet it was one of the few things Aziraphale felt was solid. They celebrated holidays, they watched the coronations, they mourned for disasters together, in their own private ways. The fact of the matter was, Aziraphale and Crowley were beginning to become something smaller than an angel and a demon, though larger than a pair of humans.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Good Omens Big Bang 2020!
> 
> A collection of vignettes as their relationship grows!
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone in my Good Omens Discord who helped to encourage me along the way, my beta reader and bff Sydni, and my podficcer olive2read ! Go and listen to her amazing work: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22555258

The first time Aziraphale and Crowley touch, it is entirely by accident. After all, no one truly knows what would happen if an angel and a demon ever touched, and they had both been quite content never to find out. 

But neither of them could have predicted it; a few too many glasses of wine, and the careful distance they keep from one another is breached. 

It's momentary, but the shock of it must be mutual, because Crowley gasps and drops the bottle in his hand. It shatters on the floor but Aziraphale doesn't notice. His eyes are wide and on Crowley. Crowley returns the look, awaiting the death he is sure is inevitable. 

The hostel room is deathly quiet between them. Thirty seconds pass. And then a minute. Then two. No lightning comes to strike either of them; Crowley doesn't melt as though dunked in holy water; Aziraphale doesn't burn as though consumed by hellfire, and he doesn't Fall either. 

Finally, they relax, a nervous chuckle escaping both of them. Though nothing is said, they both mutually agree to drop it. Aziraphale waves his hand and the broken bottle springs back up onto the table, whole again and filled with wine. 

"I think that's quite enough for tonight, don't you?" Aziraphale says. It's easy to avoid Crowley's eyes when they're hidden. 

He heads toward the door, though he doesn't know where he's going to go. It's too late to get a carriage back to London, but he doesn't know if he can bear to stay in the same village after this. 

Crowley stands, mouth open to speak, but nothing more than his usual stutterings manage to claw their way out.

Aziraphale's hands pause on the door handle. He wants to hear Crowley say something. He doesn't want to feel like he's walking out on him.

"Night, Angel," Crowley says, voice strangled. 

"Goodnight, Crowley." 

He's halfway down the hall before he realizes Crowley has just called him "Angel." Which shouldn't necessarily surprise him. It’s a label Crowley has used several times over the years. But it's always been said with light derision, even envy. It's never been _affectionate_. Aziraphale totters on the edge of the stairs, suddenly feeling unbalanced and fragile. 

Aziraphale makes a conscious effort to always keep a distance from then on. Even after drinking, after a night out, he is always watching Crowley from the corner of his eye. He is afraid of feeling that shock again. He is afraid of what an angel and a demon being able to touch could mean. 

Aziraphale has taken up study at the newly christened Oxford school, and spends almost all of his time on the campus: reading, attending lectures, socializing on occasion. He’s seeking to broaden his mind, and he wants to understand how humans approach learning about the universe around them. 

Crowley, who has been more or less wandering around England and western Europe, occasionally pays him visits. 

On this particular day — rainy, dark, and cold — he bangs into the small apartment Aziraphale has been living in with a few of the other students.

"Shoes and coat off please, dear," Aziraphale says without even needing to look up. 

Crowley mutters something rude under his breath, but obeys. 

"Since when did you call me 'dear?'" he asks, plopping into a chair across the carpet. He holds his hands out to the fireplace, thin black spectacles low on his nose. 

"I call everyone ‘dear.’"

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale sees him wave his hand dismissively. "That's not what I'm here for. Aziraphale, I need your help."

Over his reading glasses he sends him a brief glance. "With what?"

"There's something my Head Office wants me to do, and it just seems stupid for me to go all the way up to _Iceland_ for it. Especially this time of year. You know how I feel about the cold."

"That comes with being a serpent, Crowley."

"Well I didn't have any choice in what I was!"

"I have lessons to be attending. These humans have some very interesting ideas about theology, and I don't want to miss any of it."

Crowley leans forward in his chair, hands held out pleadingly. "Aziraphale, _please_ . As my _friend—_ ”

The codex slips out of Aziraphale's hands and clatters to the floor. 

He stares, wide-eyed, at Crowley, but he isn't looking at him. His head is bowed, one hand pressed to the back of his skull, and he's grimacing. "Satan bless it," he mutters. "That bloody _hurt_!"

"Well — what did?"

"I don't really know." He raises his head. "Maybe I'm not meant to use words like ‘friend’ or something."

"Well." He bristles. Although it makes his skin crawl to put up a wall between them, it's a necessity. "I should think that would be obvious. You _are_ a demon, after all."

Crowley rolls his eyes and pushes his glasses back up over his eyes. "Whatever. So are you going to help me or not? You still owe me from... oh, I dunno. I'll owe you. Just do this one thing for me, won't you?"

Aziraphale sighs before leaning over and scooping the manuscript back up. "I suppose I could miss a few lectures. Not like I'm learning anything anyway."

Crowley stands, clapping his hands. "You're incredible!" He winces again. "I won't forget this, Angel. I owe you one." 

In one fluid motion he slithers across the room, steps into his shoes, and slides into his coat. Without another word he's out the door and the room is silent once again, save for the crackling of the fire. 

The Rococo era has been, so far, one of Aziraphale's favorites. While he isn’t particularly fond of art — no more than any other person of culture — he can’t help but relish in the lush, somewhat gluttonous court life of French aristocracy. His high-society manners, as well as his interest in history and literature, have found him a place in King Louis XIV's inner circle. Which means he is invited to the ostentatious balls and dinners hosted in Versaille, and any other events the king wishes for his company. 

During holidays, celebrations, or even to remedy boredom on Tuesday evenings, Aziraphale gets dressed up, and makes his way into one of the many ballrooms and feasting halls. Dinners when the King just didn’t want to be alone, or when something pertaining to Aziraphale’s interests and expertise needed to be discussed. Occasionally he has gone hunting or riding with some of the residents at Versaille.

While such parties and distractions are made to keep the disloyal aristo complacent, Aziraphale simply enjoys the food and the company. 

Imagine his surprise when he finds out that his 'nemesis' has also found his way into the court. 

It's a chilly October night, and tonight's theme is the somewhat controversial celebration of the beginning of the harvest season. As someone who has spent much time around witches, occultists, and general non-Christians, Aziraphale finds the taboo nature of it all rather entertaining. 

He lounges in a soft chair, wine glass in hand. He is listening to one of the ladies chat about food shortages, or hats, or something. Really, he is only half paying attention. The alcohol has meandered its way through his bloodstream and into his head; he feels very light but also very tired. 

Finally seeming to realize that he hasn't been paying attention for at least five minutes, the courtier stands with a huff and leaves — nearly hitting Aziraphale with her bustle as she does so. 

He thinks a finely dressed servant keeps trying to catch his eye from across the room, but he can't honestly be sure; perhaps he should let up on the wine. 

He sets the glass on a platter nearby and sits up, letting out a quiet groan as his tired muscles protest. A flash of red catches his eye and he quickly sits up the rest of the way. 

He turns, searching for the color in the crowd. Many of the people here are blond, or brunette, or raven-haired; there's only ever been a few redheads he's ever seen. Unless...

He stands and skirts around the edge of the dance floor. 

He lets out a squeak of surprise as he is caught by the shoulders and turned around; it all happens so fast that he can't manage to put up a fight as he is pulled into closed position and maneuvered onto the dance floor. He looks up directly into the spectacled eyes of Crowley. He is swept into a dance as the band resumes their play, and polite society requires that he at least humor the demon for one dance.

He gives another noise of protest. "What are you doing here?" he hisses. 

He glances up and down, taking in Crowley’s outfit. He feels a rush of blood to his face. He _really_ pushes the boundaries of modesty, doesn’t he? 

Far from the most skin Aziraphale has ever seen on him, but by today’s standards, the more conservative in the crowd would be whispering — about his hair, about his dress, about the reptilian way he smiles. 

His hair is tightly curled, cascading over his barely-covered shoulders, and pearls are woven into it. His long red dress opens in the center to reveal a black underskirt with fine red bows tied all around. Through some sort of demonic miracle, the black fades to red as the underskirt tickles the tops of his shoes. Thinner bows of the same color wrap around his wrists. A pearl necklace caresses his tall collarbones, and yet another bow kisses his neck, placed just above where his Adam’s apple would be.

Crowley snorts. "Do you really think you're the only one who likes a good party now and again?"

"What are you _planning_?" he hisses.

His eye roll is practically audible; his painted-on eyebrows seem to almost fly off his face. 

Aziraphale resists the urge to shout at him. 

"Who says I'm planning anything?"

"You're a _demon_! Disaster follows wherever you go."

"Now you're just being ignorant. I'm friends with Madame de Maintenon. _She_ invited me. Not everything I do is meant to be”—he waves his hand—" _furthering_ the unholy agenda of Hell, or whatever."

They break apart and meet with another couple. Aziraphale bows to the young lady — whose name is Corine, if he remembers correctly — but the whole time he is looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye. 

"She's lovely, Monsieur Fell," she says. "Though she seems a bit less..." She searches for the word. "... _conventional_ than you are."

Aziraphale sniffs. He isn't sure what he's more offended by: the implication that he and Crowley are together, or that he is conventional in any way. 

"Yes, thank you." They break apart again, and Aziraphale is back with Crowley. 

He spins him, but misses catching his hand. He is distracted, trying to make sense of the emotions roaring in the bottom of his stomach. "What do you want anyway?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Was dancing _really_ required for talking?"

He smirks. "No, but I thought you looked awfully bored talking to that woman."

Aziraphale snorts. "Shove off. And this—” He motions to the intricate red dress Crowley is wearing, and his heavily ornamented red hair."What purpose does this serve?"

"Oh, I casually mentioned my taste for dresses to the Madame and she insisted on dressing me for the ball."

He can't help but laugh. "Really? You should have known better. Madame de Maintenon is not one to be trifled with in that department."

"As I'm sure you would know."

"I would, actually. Who do you think introduced me to King Louis?"

The music swells and then fades. Aziraphale bows and Crowley curtsies low, strands of curly red hair hanging over his powdered white face. 

They leave the dance floor, but Crowley doesn't walk away yet. "What would you say to a walk in the gardens?"

"Isn't it a bit cold for you, old serpent?"

Crowley opens his mouth to speak, but keeps whatever it is to himself. "Just come with me, Angel. I said I wanted to talk to you. It's been a while."

Aziraphale sighs. "Alright, dear boy. Come along." He offers an arm, and Crowley loops his through it. The servants open the doors for them as they approach, and a gust of biting air comes at them. Aziraphale feels goosebumps rise on Crowley's skin where his hand meets bare arm, but says nothing.

They walk into the gardens, seeing the few other couples who have decided that a walk alone in the gardens was worth the temperature. 

There is silence for a few minutes, and Crowley is gazing up into the night sky, as if tracing all the constellations, making new ones the humans will never understand. Aziraphale watches him, as he has learned to do, out of the corner of his eye. He tries to ignore their closeness, the touch of their skin. He had vowed long ago to avoid touching Crowley if he could; but polite society made it impossible to keep such a distance. At least now it didn't feel like an electric shock.

"Did you actually have anything to talk to me about?" he asks finally. He is afraid of the answer; he doesn't know why. 

Crowley doesn't take his eyes off the sky. "I think I did, but I can't remember it now." His voice is faint, far away. His mind must be out there. 


	2. II

"Angel," Crowley says, breaking a comfortable, thoughtful silence. They are sitting on a bench in St. James' Park, enjoying the rare spring sunshine. Aziraphale has spent most of the outing considering ducks, and also occasionally thinking of the books he's reading. Crowley hasn't seemed to really notice how little he's paying attention. 

Aziraphale's eyes refocus and he glances over at him. "Hm?"

"Can angels really sense love?"

He frowns. Readjusts, so he's facing Crowley. "I thought that would be the type of thing one remembers, having been an angel."

"Been a long time since that."

"Well." He folds his hands in his lap. "Yes, we can. It's sort of a... I'm not entirely sure how to describe it."

Crowley's head rolls on his neck like a pivot. He watches the passersby; young couples out on dates, men on their way to and from work or errands. Humans, being human. Going about their lives as if that was all there was to do. "So when you see a human, what do you sense?"

Aziraphale turns his eyes from Crowley, follows a few strangers on their paths. He shifts his focus away from the physical world and into the metaphysical. "Well, there are different types of love. That mother loves her children, in a different way than that couple loves one another." He sighs. "St. James' Park also has an aura of love; the whole place is buzzing with it."

Crowley hums. "And what about me?"

Aziraphale's eyes narrow and he looks back at him. "What do you mean?"

He waves his hands and leans forward a little. "Have I got an  _ aura _ ?"

He cocks his head, eyes searching over him. There's nothing but static. "Well, sort of — but not the usual kind of aura."

Crowley hums, apparently satisfied, though not in a way that makes him happy. "That answers that then."

"Answers what?"

"I was wondering if demons could love."

Aziraphale scoffs. "Well of course you can't. It's against your fundamental nature."

Crowley slips down so far in the bench he's practically falling off of it. His arms are crossed over his chest and he's looking far off, away from Aziraphale. "Yeah, must be," he murmurs. 

Of course, Aziraphale can’t sense an aura of love from Crowley for the same reason people in Times Square can't see America.

Aziraphale has just come to the horrified conclusion that he's in love with his best friend. 

He sits in the back of his bookshop as the all-clear sirens sound. In the chair across the room is the duffel bag of books that had been saved from a collapsing church by a demon, who had come to save him from being inconveniently discorporated. Crowley is his friend, surely, but he had no reason to put himself on the line like that. Surely he knew that there wasn't any  _ real _ danger. Just a spot of bother. And it had been entirely possible that stepping onto consecrated ground would actually permanently injure him. Aziraphale certainly hadn't known for sure at the time. Such a kind gesture towards an angel would get who  _ knew _ what kind of punishment from the Dark Council.

A tiny impulsive thought tickles at the back of his mind. The kind of unproductive voice that humans had come to refer to as the devil on their shoulder. The impulse that only ever serves to egg one on, to encourage one to make bad decisions, or to place thoughts designed to hurt into one's mind. 

_ What else could it mean? _ it whispers. Aziraphale waves his hand, as if the thought were a fly buzzing around his head. "That's ridiculous," he says to himself. "We know he can't. He can't love. We settled this, ages ago."

Besides, even if he  _ did _ feel a certain way, a certain non-platonic way, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing could  _ ever _ come of it. 

Why, imagine the consequences if either of their Head Offices were to find out!

Resolutely, Aziraphale stands and leaves the room, leaving the books sitting in that chair in the dark. Perish the thought. He tries to tell himself that he feels nothing at all for Crowley, that even entertaining the  _ possibility _ is  _ unspeakably _ dangerous. What angel in their right mind would fall in love with a  _ demon _ ?

Well, if there was any angel in the whole Host who was stupid enough, it would be him, certainly. 

"Why am I still talking about it?" he demands of the empty shop. 

He sits down and buries his face in his hands. "I'm in love with Crowley," he moans. He feels like he might cry. This reality has been lying dormant in his heart of hearts for years, and all it took was a ridiculously sympathetic and  _ loving _ gesture to force him into realizing it. 

But surely a bag of books was nothing more than that, right? Of course it wasn't some kind of wordless admission.

Crowley had never been good with words. It didn't help that it caused him actual pain to say kind things to him. He had always expressed affection with gifts or gestures. He insisted that words were a "human" thing.

The knowledge that demons do not have the capacity for love comforts him. At least he is safe; he is just overthinking all of this. 

But still, the pain of existing with this... whatever it is — calling it a crush just seems so juvenile — and not being able to talk about it or act on it, while also being unable to be rid of it, will surely make life a living Hell. 

Perhaps he could just shove it deep down inside of him, so he wouldn't have to feel it burn. Surely, that was the only way to save their friendship, their Arrangement, and their lives. 

"I don't understand why we can't see the Comedy of Errors again," Crowley complains. 

They wander up Broadway, towards the August Wilson theater. The bustle of people obviously makes Crowley skittish, but there is simply no other way to travel in such a crowded city. 

"They're doing it again. Who wants to see  _ Romeo and Juliet _ ? Wasn't once enough for you?"

"Hush now, Crowley," Aziraphale chides, flapping a hand at him, as if waving off a troublesome insect. " _ Romeo and Juliet _ is one of the most timeless of Shakespeare's plays! The tragedy of forbidden love!" He sighs wistfully. A common trope, perhaps, but one of his favorites.

Crowley groans. "You're a sod."

Hours later, they have returned to the hotel in upper New York City, and Aziraphale sits lazily in an armchair, staring out the window at the glowing cityscape. 

Crowley meanders about in the background, a glass of wine in his hand. He is pacing, though he hasn't stopped long enough to explain why. 

"What did you think of the play, my dear?" Aziraphale asks. To break the silence, if nothing else. 

"Wasn't bad. That leading actress was wonderful though."

"I always suspected you had a soft spot for Shakespeare."

"I like  _ plays _ , Aziraphale. Since I don't read."

He rolls his eyes, and then sighs. "The tragedy of it all. It breaks your heart."

Immediately, as if he doesn't even realize he's saying it, Crowley retorts, "I don't have a heart."

Aziraphale barely hears him. His head is tilted, eyes wandering off into the distance. "I suppose one really can't help who they fall in love with."

Crowley's pacing footsteps stop abruptly. Aziraphale doesn't turn around; really, he barely notices. 

"No," he says quietly. "I suppose you can't."

Aziraphale walks beside Crowley, hands folded in front of him, gently twisting the ring around his finger. Crowley’s hands are in his pockets, leaned back on his hips so far Aziraphale wonders if he’s using demonic magic to keep himself upright.

They come to stand under the gazebo; Aziraphale thinks it might have been their destination all along. As if by fate, the dark sky opens up and lets its burden go, bringing down a torrential rain onto London. Crowley looks at it. Aziraphale looks at Crowley.

Crowley turns to him, and Aziraphale looks away. 

They speak at the same time. 

“Angel—”

“Crowley—”

They smile. Crowley chuckles. He’s nervous. Frighteningly so. 

“You go first, my dear.”

“Well — there’s just. There’s something I want to tell you.”

Something painful inside of his heart shifts. He backs away a step. But demons can’t love! They had established that fact ages ago!

“What is it?”

He grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just — before we went on any longer.”

Well, perhaps it would be best to save him, while he seems to be drowning. 

“I love you too!” he blurts, before he can think long enough to stop himself. 

Crowley stops. Were it not for the continuing downpour, Aziraphale would almost believe time itself has stopped. 

“How did you know that was what I was gonna say?” he asks, voice quiet and fragile. 

“I know you all too well, my dear. You were fidgeting worse than I’ve ever seen you.”

He scoffs, looking away. Presumably to hide a blush. “Well. That’s that then.”

He steps forward. He’s standing up straight now. He reaches forward and takes one of Aziraphale’s hands in his. Then the other. Aziraphale is gazing up at him, almost through the opaqueness of the glasses and into his eyes. 

Crowley leans down, and Aziraphale’s eyes slide shut. He can feel the air pressure shift as they move closer to one another, Crowley’s cold breath on his cheek—

A crack of thunder and a flash of lightning makes them jump apart. Aziraphale lets out an involuntary shriek. He whirls around, looking for a sign of the archangels. There isn’t any — just the rain and the empty park. 

Aziraphale turns back around, Crowley’s name forming on his lips. But Crowley’s gone. 

He lets out a shuddering breath, laying a hand on his breast to quiet his palpitating heart. He backs up, his back hitting one of the pillars holding up the roof of the gazebo. He slides down it until he’s sitting, and buries his face in his hands. 


	3. III

It’s several months until they speak again. Aziraphale has wanted, desperately, to call him up, to offer or receive  _ some _ kind of explanation. But whether it has been his own self-doubt or some kind of influence from outside, every time he reached for the phone, he found himself drawing back, consumed by an overwhelming sadness he couldn’t quite place. 

He decides to give Crowley some time, some space, even though he feels like that is the opposite of what both of them need. They had just professed their love to each other, after all, in an entirely  _ romantic _ way. 

The next time he sees Crowley is actually entirely by accident. Aziraphale is doing a blessing for a young couple. Although they aren’t allowed to get  _ traditionally  _ married, they are having a quiet, sweet ceremony in a hollow in a wood. He has just finished giving them their well-wishes, when he spots a flash of dark clothes and red hair moving through the trees. Silently, he follows, knowing better than to call his name. He stops when Crowley stops, and sees him start talking to a police officer. He whispers to him, gesturing over his shoulder. He must be doing a temptation. Aziraphale draws back into the shadows. He’s done enough tempting during the course of their Arrangement to know how frustrating it is to be interrupted. 

The police officer turns and leaves. As Crowley turns to go back down the path, he spots Aziraphale watching him. He frowns and then glances over his shoulder — presumably looking for an escape route. 

Then he turns back to him, opening and closing his mouth, like one of those novelty talking bass humans hang on their walls.

“Angel — ngk — what — what’re you doing here?”

“Well I was performing a small blessing. You?”

“Same — ah, a temptation, that is. You know. Evil, demonic stuff.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. 

“I — er,  _ persuaded _ that officer not to arrest those two lovebirds over there. Told him not to do his job.”

A big, sweet smile spreads across his face. “Oh, well isn’t that very kind of you.”

Crowley throws up a hand, stopping the words in his mouth. “No, no, I am  _ not _ kind. You don’t get to use that word to me.” 

The hostility brings Aziraphale a step back, and he instinctively brings his hands up, as if to placate him. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Right. Sorry. Been a stressful night, is all.”

“It’s quite alright.”

There is silence between them, even as the forest comes to life. 

“So… what’ve you been up to?” Crowley asks finally. 

Of all the small talk.

“The usual. Running the shop. You?”

“Oh, I’ve been out traveling. Needed to get out of London for a while. But I’m back, now.”

Are they just not going to bring up what had happened at the gazebo? Are they going to brush past it and pretend it had never happened?

If that would make it simpler, then yes, he supposes they will. 

He would just have to ignore how much that hurts. 

Crowley looks down at his shoes, hands shoved unceremoniously into his pockets. Minutes seem to pass in silence. 

“Sorry,” Crowley finally says. It’s so quiet, Aziraphale almost mistakes it for the wind. 

“For what, dear?” 

Crowley winces. “Everything. That day. I — I wasn’t sure what I was thinking.”

His voice is wavering, and although Aziraphale knows demons can’t cry — though there was a point where he “knew” demons couldn’t love, either — it sounds as though Crowley is about to break into tears. 

He wants to step forward, to comfort him, to sweep him into his arms and kiss him — but then he remembers the strike of lightning, the intervention from Beyond. A warning shot. 

So he withdraws. He takes another step back. “Don’t worry about it, dear boy. We were both… out of our heads, at the time. It wasn’t your fault.” After all, Aziraphale had encouraged it. 

Crowley swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing. Aziraphale watches it, and his fingers start tingling. 

Finally, he looks up, the falsest of smiles plastered across his face; it looks almost like a grimace. “Yes, right. Well. I’ll see ya, Angel.” With that, he’s gone. 

Aziraphale sighs, his own breath shaking. He yearns for the simplicity of before, when all of this was trapped under a thin layer of plausible deniability. Back then, he could have just ignored the feelings in his stomach when the sun glanced off of Crowley’s hair and the rims of his glasses, the way he throws his head back when he laughs. He wishes he could ignore how jealous he is of the young lovers he’s just blessed, because even though the world is against their love, at least they are together, and happy. At least their relationship isn’t inundated with a self-afflicted fear of their own feelings. 

The day is December thirty-first. 

The year is 1999. 

Crowley has managed to drag Aziraphale along to a millenium party, and has drank at least half of the alcohol in the place. He wears a lampshade, a feather boa, and the ugliest pair of “Happy New Years!” glasses Aziraphale has ever seen. 

The music is loud, and the air smells of sweat and love and drink. It seems as though all the humans all over the world are celebrating as if the world is coming to an end. He has heard the theories, but of course he knows that this year isn’t the year of Armageddon. 

Crowley collapses on the sofa, pulling Aziraphale down by the hand. “You need to drink more!” he shouts over the music. 

He raises his eyebrows. “Why would I want to do that?” he replies. The drink here is awful; all cheap beer and even cheaper champagne. If he wants to do anything more than drink socially, he’s going to do it with spirits of  _ much _ higher quality. 

Crowley slips off the feather boa and throws it around Aziraphale’s neck, pulling on it briefly. “So you can stop being so boring!”

He scoffs. “I’m not boring!” he replies. As if to prove how fun he is, he downs what is left of his champagne, grimacing at how sour it is. 

“Heyyy, there it is!” 

The party goes well into the wee hours of the morning. The ball drops, the new millennium begins, and the music gradually fades until it is nothing more than background noise as many of the remaining party guests slip into a revery-induced deep sleep. An angel and a demon lounge together in a corner of a billiard room. Aziraphale is buried in a book; Crowley keeps drifting in and out of sleep. 

Glancing at his pocketwatch and seeing that the hour is now well past three, he shuts the book and stands. 

The sudden noise and movement jars Crowley into wakefulness, and he stands up bolt straight before promptly falling forward on his face. 

“Had a bit too much, my dear?”

“Ngnfk,” comes the reply, muffled by the shag carpet. 

“Come along, Crowley, let’s get home.” 

Slowly, the demon stands, much more solidly than before, and follows Aziraphale out of the house. 

The night is deathly cold, and foggy, as the two of them stumble into the street. 

It’s much too late to find a cab, and so they begin the long walk back towards the bookshop. Through some unspoken agreement, the all-but unused bed in Aziraphale’s flat above the bookshop will find itself cleared of books and remade with clean sheets by the time they get there. Though Crowley has never spoken about it, there are some nights he would rather not spend alone. 

As they manage their way back into the dark bookshop, Crowley starts loudly singing some bebop song, his words slurring and his body swaying like he’s made of gelatin. 

“I think it’s time you go to bed,” Aziraphale says. He wraps his arm around Crowley’s shoulder, leading him towards the stairs. While he knows it’s entirely possible — and likely even a good idea — for the two of them to sober up, he doesn’t really want to. 

“Angelllll,” Crowley crows. “IIIIIIIII will allwaysss looove you!”

They cross the flat and into the bedroom. “Now, now, Crowley, you’re far too loud. The neighbors will complain.”

“Oh, let ‘em complain!” He flops onto the bed, face red and eyes bare. “I don’t care about anyone. Not the neighbors, or Heaven or Hell or  _ God _ !” He grasps at Aziraphale’s hand, holding it first to his chest and then to his lips. “Why should we care about them? They don’t give a shit about us.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks burn, and after a moment he yanks his hand out of Crowley’s. “They will, if they find out that we’ve been  _ fraternizing _ .”

“Fraternizing? Pft.” He flops onto the bed, kicking his shoes off. “This isn’t fraternizing, Angel. This is — going to parties, and having sleepovers!”

He sighs, something thick and painful in his chest. “Good  _ night _ , Crowley.” He supposes he can only pray that neither of them will remember this in the morning. 

Despite his wishes, he does remember brief flashes of the night before. He had been far less inebriated than Crowley had been, and while he can easily miracle away the headache, he cannot so easily rid himself of the dreadful cold settling in the pit of his stomach, every time he remembers the words, the look in Crowley’s eyes, so rarely revealed to him.

The sun peaks over the edges of the buildings of Soho, casting rays of soft yellow light across the floor and walls. 

Aziraphale shuts his ancient signed copy of  _ Robinson Crusoe _ and heads into the kitchen. He starts to boil water for tea and, almost as an afterthought, begins brewing coffee. He knows Crowley prefers coffee to tea. Lord knew when he will be up, but the pot might as well be ready for him when he does. 

In reality, it is hours until Crowley finally slithers out of Aziraphale’s bedroom. He looks afright, though obviously he doesn’t know it yet. 

“Good morning, Crowley,” Aziraphale says from his space on the sofa, book in hand. 

“Hm.”

Smelling the coffee, he wanders into the kitchen and pours himself a cup, miracling some milk and sugar in and stirring it. He sets the cup down on the coffee table and props his feet up. “Do you remember anything that happened last night?”

“Some,” he replies. “Then again, you were rather sloshed, weren’t you.”

“Well it  _ was _ New Years.”

“Right. Happy twenty-first century, my dear.”

They had walked across centuries, strode through millennia; it hardly required notice. And yet, they got swept up in it. They had spent so long among humans — living with them, learning about them, pretending to be the same as them — that it was hard to remember that they didn’t belong here, that everything about  _ this _ , about their Arrangement, was  _ wrong _ . It was against their very natures, and yet it was one of the few things Aziraphale felt was solid. They celebrated holidays, they watched the coronations, they mourned for disasters together, in their own private ways. The fact of the matter was, Aziraphale and Crowley were beginning to become something smaller than an angel and a demon, though larger than a pair of humans. 

Aziraphale remembers the brief conversation last night; the vulnerability that Crowley only ever seemed capable of when his more logical functions were suppressed with alcohol or drug use. He’s trying to reach across an impossible gap, a chasm created by their opposite natures. And as much as Aziraphale wants to reach back, to grasp his hand and finish what had been started in that gazebo, he worries what will happen.

“How long has it been since you last heard from Head Office?”

“Define ‘heard from.’”

Crowley leans back over the arm of the couch, examining a vase he has recently added to his collection. “You know. Heard from.”

“Well, the last memo they sent me was about six months ago.”

“And what about in-person visits?”

Aziraphale purses his lips in thought. “Well, I’m not entirely sure,” he says. “It must have been… going on ten years now?” 

Crowley sputters. “I wonder if they even remember you’re down here. Maybe those memos are automated.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You could probably do something”—he gestures vaguely—“ _ monumentally evil _ and they wouldn’t even notice. Probably blame it on me.”

“I am already doing evil things,” he points out, though he knows full well this does nothing to aid his argument. 

Crowley sits up, extending his arms around. “That’s my point!” Now he stands and starts pacing around the room, tossing the vase idly from one hand to another. “You could do bigger and badder things, more than just picking up little temptations for me now and again. You could”—he waves his hand—“get married.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. While getting married to a human would certainly be unorthodox, and maybe even a little taboo, it isn’t outright forbidden in Heaven. Just stupid, and a heartbreak waiting to happen. “Getting married isn’t exactly what I’d call ‘bigger and badder.’”

Crowley turns on him, arms akimbo as if he had been cut off mid-sentence. “What d’you mean?” he asks. 

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly Fall for falling in love with someone, or getting married, or anything in between or beyond.”

There’s a moment of silence as Crowley stares at him. Then, a single, strangled syllable forces its way out of his throat. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Well — uh, I just. Didn’t remember. That it was… like that.”

“Is it not the same in Hell?”

“No! I’d get — doused in holy water for even — thinking about it! Not that I’d  _ want _ to, I mean, have you  _ met _ humans, but I—”

“Hold on,” Aziraphale says. Now he’s on his feet as well, though he doesn’t remember standing. “You mean you’re not allowed to have relationships?”

“Not unless it’s with other demons which—” He sticks his tongue out and feigns a gag. 

He knows Crowley is not a particularly romantic person. Neither are many demons, he’s sure. They have had this conversation more than once, in their thousands of years of friendship. Crowley struggled to be sympathetic after Aziraphale lost someone he had been particularly close with, having expressed his own lack of experience in the area. 

But if he has always been so discouraged from pursuing such relationships, and lacked almost any interest in them, then why had he been so insistent when the prospects of their own relationship cropped up?

“Angel?” Crowley is watching him with a mix of concern and confusion visible on his face. Apparently, Aziraphale hasn’t moved in several moments, and has stopped listening to the tirade. 

He blinks and shakes his head, bringing himself back into the moment. “What? Oh, I’m sorry dear, I must have — gone off into my own thoughts for a while.”

Since the 1980s, the frequency with which Aziraphale and Crowley contact one another for purely social reasons has increased exponentially. They are still careful, Aziraphale especially, to always look over their shoulders. They are both reasonably sure that Head Office has no idea, and have been, more or less, lulled into a sense of security in the matter. 

It shouldn’t surprise Aziraphale as much as it does, then, when Crowley makes a suggestion that would have seemed impossible merely fifty years ago. 

“Go on a picnic with me, Angel?”

The request comes as Aziraphale walks Crowley back to his building. He has been silent, for most of the night. Now, his voice is tentative, almost afraid. 

Aziraphale stops midstep, nearly dropping the fob watch he has been fiddling with. “I beg your pardon?” Crowley stops a few steps ahead of him and turns, hands buried deep in his pockets, concealed eyes fixed on some point in the distance. 

“A picnic. Thought we could go on one… You said, a long time ago, that we might be able to. You know.”

Was Aziraphale losing his mind? Or did Crowley almost sound… embarrassed?

“That seems rather dangerous.”

Crowley looks at the ground now, nudging something that doesn’t exist with the edge of his foot. “Yeah.”

“You know what would happen to us if—”

“Why can’t we just try, Angel? Hm?” He holds his hands out now, almost pleadingly. “We haven’t heard a peep from Head Office and we’ve been — having this Arrangement for centuries. Don’t you think they would’ve noticed by now? What’s — this little thing?” Something seems to strike him, and it seems to hurt him physically. He takes a step back. “Unless…” he lets out a breath, and finally looks at him. “Unless you don’t — actually— right.” He clears his throat. His serpentine tongue slips out of his mouth and wets his lips. He nods. “Right. I should’ve realisssed. Sso sorry, Angel, it took me so long to take a hint.” With that, he pushes his glasses back up his nose, shoves his hands in his pockets, and turns on his heels. 

Something inside of Aziraphale screams for him to go after him, to tell him something — something that will unfold him from himself. Aziraphale can sense love, but he can also sense other, more negative emotions. Radiating off of Crowley, stronger than he’s ever felt it — possibly because there is nothing the demon is doing to keep it hidden — is pure, unadulterated heartbreak.

Aziraphale spends the next twenty-four hours pacing a groove into the floor of his backroom. He doesn’t open the shop; he’s far too distracted to keep humans from buying his precious books. He doesn’t even fix himself a cup of cocoa. He just walks back and forth across the room, fingers knotting themselves together. 

Finally, he stops, addressing the coat rack. “Crowley, my dear, I’m very sorry about my behaviour the past — several centuries. Oh, bother…” He resumes pacing as he edits his internal script. “Crowley, I know I’ve said and done many things, given off confusing signals, as it were, but no more! Blast…” He runs a hand through his hair. “Crowley, I want you to know that I love— no, definitely not.”

He turns to the coat rack again. “Why don’t I just do something? Actions have always been Crowley’s preferred method of communication, hasn’t it? The books, the oysters, the wine — well, that’s it then, isn’t it?”

A smile crosses his face and he’s certain he’s glowing mildly. He heads up the stairs, feeling oddly light on his feet, and takes a wicker basket out from a cupboard. He then takes out several ingredients and sets them on a checker-printed cloth: a bottle of fine wine, several cups of artisanal cheese, fine salted crackers, french bread and jam, a box of chocolates, and a small container of cherries. It is all rather cliché, of course, but Aziraphale had never been one to avoid a cliché.

Taking a breath to steady himself, he leaves the shop, calls a cab, and heads to Crowley’s flat.

It’s a rare sunlit day in London, and Aziraphale can’t help but consider the possibility that this isn’t mere chance. It’s a ridiculous thing to think, but nice all the same. 

Aziraphale has only ever been to the building Crowley’s most recent flat is situated within a handful of times, and never to the flat itself. The furthest he has been is just outside the lift in the front lobby. He wonders now if that barrier was maintained by Crowley or by him. 

He walks into the lobby and to the front desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious about carrying a large whicker basket around his arm. 

“Uh, yes, excuse me,” he says, “You wouldn’t be able to tell me where the apartment of a Mr. Anthony Crowley is, could you?”

The bored teenaged attendant looks up, his jaw wagging as he gnoshes obnoxiously on a piece of gum. “I’m not supposed to tell you where people live, dude,” he says. 

Aziraphale nods and smiles benevolently at him. “Of course. That would be ridiculous.” He waves his hand and the young man’s eyes fall shut. “Now, where can I find Mr. Crowley?”

“Sixth story, flat 31,” he drones.

“Thank you. Now, when the lift dings, you will awake having dreamed about whatever you like best.”

He turns and heads towards the lift, pressing the number marked “six” and rubbing a seam on his jacket nervously. The lift ascends, and with each passing story Aziraphale’s heart pounds harder and harder. 

The lift doors slide open to reveal a long grey hallway. There are black numbers pinned to the light grey doors. He wanders down the hallway, his feet clicking on the tile and seeming to echo on forever. He counts off under his breath, “eleven, twelve, thirteen…” He looks down at the basket, wondering if this was a good idea at all. Who’s to say that Crowley even  _ wants _ to see him? Maybe he’s finally realized how little Aziraphale deserves him, and so they’ve ceased their friendship and he hasn’t bothered to tell him yet? “Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…” What if he’s being watched right now? What if Head Office is sending a pair of angels to arrest him, to take him back up to Heaven to face Michael’s seething wrath and Gabriel’s quiet cruelty? “Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…” He stands in front of the door as if it were the door to Hell. 

There is something deeply forboding about it, and he doesn’t know if that’s his own anxiety or some kind of demonic miracle meant to keep humans away. 

_ You’re an angel, Aziraphale, you’re more capable than this. You wielded the flaming sword! And guarded the Eastern Gate of Eden! This is just a picnic! _

Steeling himself, he reaches up and raps on the door. 

“Go away, I’m not buying anything,” comes Crowley’s voice from inside. The feeling of unwelcomeness intensifies. 

“I’m not — it’s me, Crowley.”

A moment of stillness passes and the door whips open. And there Crowley is, shades hastily thrown on, one hand on the door, the other on the frame, nearly blocking Aziraphale’s view into the flat. 

“What — what the Heaven are you doing here, Angel? How did you know my flat number?”

Aziraphale withers, ever so slightly. “The young man downstairs told me.”

“He’s not supposed to do that.”

“Well… he didn’t really have much choice in the matter.”

Crowley’s eyes suddenly seem to find the basket, and his whole body goes still. Something seems to be at war in his mind. 

“Angel…”

“I wanted to apologize. I know I’ve been… confusing. It’s just difficult, for me. This sort of thing. After Oscar passed away, and with everything with Head Office—”

“It’s okay, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice is barely a whisper, and it sends a breath of cold air over the angel’s body. 

“I was wondering, if you wanted, to go on a picnic. With me.”

“What about Head Office?” he replies with a hint of ruefulness.

“I figure — we’ve been fraternizing long enough. What’s a picnic?”

Crowley smiles, and Aziraphale’s heart flutters across his chest. 

“Hold on a mo,’ let me get changed.” He closes the door. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know why Crowley feels the need to get changed, and he tries not to feel offended that he wasn’t invited inside, but the wait isn’t long enough that it dampens his mood. 

A minute or so later Crowley comes back out. He’s wearing a knee-length skirt and platform combat boots. He has a white poet shirt on and a black scarf. 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“What?” He grins, pulling the door of the apartment shut

"I thought the outfit you were in was sufficient."

"I didn't. Let's go." He takes the basket from Aziraphale and heads towards the lift. 

Crowley insists on driving, the basket tucked into the space between the two front seats, and within minutes they are in St. James' Park. It hadn't even been a spoken agreement between the two of them, but it  _ had _ always been their usual meeting place when they didn't want Head Office to notice. 

The day is bright, the sky is blue, and the park is awash with Londoners and tourists alike out enjoying the sunshine. Evidently, Aziraphale is not the only person who had the idea of having a picnic today. Several other couples and families have staked their claim to the green slopes and shaded areas beneath trees. 

Aziraphale heads to the shoreline of the lake and lays out the checkered blanket. 

He ignores the look from Crowley at the pattern, and takes out the food and drink. Crowley lounges back on his elbows, feeling the sun on his face. As a serpent, sunlight is a delicacy, a point of warmth in an otherwise chilly existence. Aziraphale crosses his legs and pours them both a glass of wine. 

He's keeping a respectable distance. There is no use in being overly hasty, after all. Admittedly, a part of him is still buzzing with anxiety, and he finds himself looking over his shoulder for any sign of the angels. 

Crowley doesn't seem to notice. He accepts the wine and downs it in nearly one drink before handing the empty glass over for another. 

"What finally changed your mind?" he asks after a while. "You seemed pretty determined yesterday."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You more or less put words in my mouth."

Crowley sits up, mouth opening to protest.

Aziraphale puts a hand up to cut him off. "Not that I blame you. I understand I was probably being... rather confusing."

Satisfied with this, he lays back again. 

"I just... I suppose I didn't even know how I felt myself. There's just a lot of pressure, and the angels, well... they more or less make you feel like they're always watching. And I couldn't escape the feeling that they knew about our Arrangement and just hadn't done anything about it, and  _ this _ , whatever this is, would be the straw that broke the camel's back, as it were, and this would be their final excuse to get rid of me."

"Still all hopped up about that lightning, huh?"

"What?" After a moment though, he remembers: the lightning strike at the gazebo, when they had been about to kiss. He had barely thought about it, but apparently it  _ had _ made a rather intense impression on him. "Well, I suppose so. I suppose I'm just a coward, after all."

Crowley sits up again, turning to him. "Hey." His eyebrows are furrowed, and the intensity of his gaze forces Aziraphale to look away. "You're not a coward. Falling is — one of the worst things that could happen to an angel. Trust me, I would  _ not _ recommend it. Just because you're afraid of it doesn't make you a coward. I think you're brave as Hell, Aziraphale."

He smiles, and something warm and sticky tries to force its way out of his chest. "Thank you, Crowley. That's very k--"

Crowley sends him a warning look. 

"Well. You know I'm right."

They spend the next few hours watching the ducks and the children playing, drinking wine and eating cheese and crackers. Well, Aziraphale does most of the eating. 

Somehow, they end up staying until the sun starts setting, staining the sky pink and red. They're sitting together, closer now, their shoulders nearly touching. Aziraphale offers the box of chocolates and, largely to humor him, he thinks, Crowley accepts one. 

"I don't know why it took me this long to suggest a picnic," Aziraphale says. Sitting in the backroom of the shop having philosophical discussions, having dinner on Sundays, and getting giggly drunk together now and again was all fine and good, of course, but this was something else entirely. 

Crowley doesn't answer. They both know why and it wouldn't do anything to discuss the matter further. Instead, he just smiles and moves the now-empty wine bottle aside so it is no longer separating them. "Still think I go too fast?" he asks. 

"Oh absolutely. But that's alright." He reaches up and brushes the pads of his fingers along Crowley's cheekbone before leaning in and pressing their lips together. 

Crowley goes deathly still for the briefest of moments, and Aziraphale starts to pull away, afraid he's crossed a line. But Crowley doesn't let him; he grabs the lapels of his jacket, holding him there and kissing him back. 

The contact only lasts for a moment before Crowley pulls away. Aziraphale stares up at him, wishing he could look into his eyes. 

He reaches up slowly and places his fingers on the edges of the glasses. “May I?”

Crowley doesn’t respond, but he does give the smallest of nods. 

Aziraphale pulls the shades off and sets them gingerly on the blanket beside them. Crowley’s eyes are closed for a moment, as if afraid of looking at the world in the right light. But there’s hardly anyone around, and no one is paying attention to them — partially due to the small miracle Aziraphale has placed around them. 

His eyes open and he meets Aziraphale’s gaze. 

“I’ve always thought your eyes were lovely,” he whispers. “I never understood why you hide them, even in private.” He reaches up and caresses his cheek for a moment, leaning in to kiss him again, but Crowley pulls away. He grabs Aziraphale around the wrist and pulls it away from his face. He keeps his eyes down and grabs for his sunglasses. 

Aziraphale scoots a few inches away as Crowley throws them back on. “I’m sorry, did I upset you?”

“Ngk — don’t worry about it, Angel.”

“Crowley, please—”

“It’s fine!” He takes a breath and his voice softens. “Sorry. It’s okay, I’m fine. I just — don’t want to talk about it right now. Is that okay?”

Aziraphale has never been one to stop pushing when it was something important, but the way Crowley seems to be folding into himself makes him pause. “Yes, of course.”

He stands up, a little wobbly on his feet. “It’s getting late. We should be getting going.” He bites his lip. 

Aziraphale just looks up at him, as if he hasn’t quite registered the words. Then, he hurriedly stands. “Yes, of course.” His throat is burning, and his chest feels heavy and painful. He’s holding back tears. The moment he’s alone, he’s sure it’s going to let loose. It had all been going so well, but the moment he tried to go out of his shell, try something intimate and vulnerable, try to get underneath Crowley’s facade to the person he knew was underneath, he overstepped; he had made Crowley uncomfortable.    
  


They continue much the same way for the next several years. Assuming Aziraphale’s count is right, they have been off and on seeing one another romantically for just about ten years. It passes quickly, in the way years do for infinitely long-lived creatures. Through all that time, their relationship hardly changes; with the exception of holding hands, kissing, and sitting just a bit closer on the sofa, the two of them never really do anything that they hadn’t done for the past five and a half millennia. Occasionally, Crowley will spend the night at Aziraphale’s flat, but he always — without saying it — tells the angel not to join him. As much as it nags at him, Aziraphale never asks why. It’s just one of those things Crowley doesn’t want to talk about. 

Crowley never invites Aziraphale over, either. This, too, bothers him, though he never expresses it. There are many things about Crowley — some of his quirks, his habits, his personality traits — that irk at the base of Aziraphale’s skin. He has gotten to the point where he doesn’t usually bring them up, because it normally only serves to upset his friend. But he can’t help but be curious why Crowley refuses to sleep in the same room beyond light naps, or why he seems almost afraid of letting Aziraphale into his flat. 

But after the first few years, he barely notices. The change in their relationship has simply shifted what they refer to as normal. Aziraphale wouldn’t call them lovers, or even boyfriends. To him, they’re the same they’ve always been: friends, caught at polar ends of a spectrum, coming together in the ultimate act of disobedience. 

Things are calm, and easy. He does temptations when Crowley wants to go to Germany or Las Vegas or Tokyo. Crowley does blessings when Aziraphale would rather chase after a book or when he doesn’t want to leave his shop unattended for too long. Their Arrangement is as normal as ever, and social visits occur just as regularly. From the outside, it seems nothing has changed. Naturally they are loathe to show affection in public; not only out of caution for their respective Head Offices, but also to avoid incurring any consequences from the humans. Soho is a historically queer section of London, but nonetheless, it isn’t exactly considered proper for two people humans view as same-gendered to express romantic affection in public. Crowley isn’t that type anyway. Since their kiss on the picnic blanket in St. James’ park, he has never even so much as touched Aziraphale in public. 

Aziraphale, being a creature of habit, becomes quite comfortable in all of this. So, naturally, his world is turned upside down when Gabriel shows up in a sushi restaurant and Crowley calls him from a payphone one night in 2007. 

“I assume this is about Armaggeddon?”

“Yes.”

The whole time during their meeting in St. James’ park, Crowley seems antsy. Aziraphale assumes it is because of their impending doom.

Later that night, after a nice lunch and several hours of drinking, Aziraphale and Crowley have just sobered up, and are sitting in silence, mulling over their new and ridiculous plan. 

Despite the happy resolution to all of this, and Crowley having gotten his way, he still seems anxious. His leg bounces idly up and down, and he won’t stop staring at Aziraphale. 

He pretends not to notice. “Can I get you some tea, my dear?” he asks. 

Crowley swallows hard, and he watches as his Adam’s apple bobs. “Angel—” His voice is defeated. Surely he hasn’t lost all of his enthusiasm yet?

“What is it, Crowley?”

“I think… I think we should stop.”

“Stop what?” Even as he asks the question, Azirapale’s heart sinks. 

Crowley gestures vaguely between them. “This.”

He stands, looking around for something. He stoops over and when he returns his glasses are back. 

Aziraphale has started to understand what Crowley is talking about, but he doesn’t want to recognize it; to acknowledge it aloud would make it true. 

Crowley sits back down. He’s turned away from Aziraphale, a profile in the low light of the bookshop. He runs a hand through his hair. “I just — it’s too complicated. What with our head offices getting all involved, and everything. It’s just all changed, and it’s going to be too complicated to keep going on.”

Well that didn’t make any sense! “We’re going to be working together to be — godfathers to this child, we’re already  _ fraternizing _ , how is it going to be too complicated?”

He puts up his hand, trying to silence Aziraphale. “Because, it just — is.”

“No, I’m sorry Crowley but that’s not good enough! You can’t come in here, force me into some kind of  _ ridiculous _ scheme, after everything — and then just—” His voice raises almost to the point of hysterics. “ _ Break up with me _ ! And then tell me that’s just  _ how it must be _ .”

“Fine, you want an explanation?” Crowley turns on him, arms flung out. “There’s every possibility one or both of us is going to die in the apocalypse, and it’s entirely  _ probable  _ that we’re going to have to  _ fight _ for our  _ sides  _ and I—” Something cracks Crowley’s voice, but he keeps on. “I  _ can’t _ do all of that with… this happening between us. I can’t  _ stomach _ the thought of facing you on that final battlefield. Of being — opposed to you.”

That still didn’t make any sense, but Aziraphale is too heartbroken to say anything about it. So he just nods, eyes squeezed tightly shut to keep them from filling. "Alright," he says. "Fine. I — understand." His voice cracks and he turns, heading up the stairs and leaving Crowley in the middle of the silent backroom. 

Aziraphale leans his forehead into his hand, taking in a few shallow breaths. All of this time, after everything, after all the drama and fighting that had led them to being able to be — whatever they were... it was all gone like  _ that _ , because of what? Because of the apocalypse? It didn't make sense! Why was Crowley so afraid, all of a sudden?

The consequences for their fraternizing would be death; it wouldn't matter whether they also spent some of that time kissing and holding hands. It would all be the same in the Archangels' eyes. Unless it was different for Crowley, unless it was different in Hell and the punishment for...  _ loving _ an angel was worse than being his friend. He had said that connections to humans were forbidden. But still — capital punishment was capital punishment.

The confusion and hurt doesn't leave Aziraphale, but every time he tries to bring it up to Crowley, he brushes it aside or altogether flees. So after a few attempts — mostly made in quiet corners of the Dowling estate while Warlock is napping — he decides that it isn't worth it, and that he likely isn't going to get an answer that he's willing to accept from Crowley. Perhaps it isn't about the Apocalypse at all; perhaps it was just a convenient excuse to give Aziraphale. Perhaps he just... didn't want to be with him that way anymore. If that were the case, Aziraphale wishes he had been honest about that outright. It would have hurt more, perhaps, but at least he wouldn't be plagued by confusion and doubt. 


	4. IV

Eleven years pass with Crowley and Aziraphale raising the wrong child, and six  _ very _ stressful days of trying to make up for lost time, and Aziraphale and Crowley have watched the apocalypse bloom and fade without doing anything remotely competent in all their attempts to end it. 

"You could stay at my place, if you like."

Aziraphale looks over at Crowley sharply. Even with his glasses on, there is a  _ look _ in Crowley's eyes, written on his face, that he hasn't allowed to show through in eleven years. It's affectionate, and full of words he had never said and Aziraphale hadn't been ready to hear. But he's still afraid; after all, even though Armageddon had been stopped, that didn't necessarily mean they were off the hook. As they speak, it is entirely likely that the Archangels and the Dark Council are figuring out how to pick them up so they can arrest them and... do Lord knows what. Execute them, probably. Very painfully. 

"I don't think my side would like that."

"You don't have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We're on our own side. Like Agnes said, we are going to have to choose our faces wisely."

He nods, considering this. The bus pulls up in front of them. Aziraphale runs his fingers anxiously over the face of his fob watch as he follows Crowley to a seat in the empty bus. As he sits, he reaches out and tentatively places his hand over Crowley's. 

Crowley looks up at him suddenly, a myriad of confused emotions crossing his face. 

He smiles in a way that he hopes communicates the fact that he doesn't want to address it right now. He just wants to be close to the person he hasn't been close to in so long. If they are going to die tomorrow, he thinks he deserves this small insubordination. 

"I hope you have some good books," he says. He doesn't know how else to accept the invitation. He's never actually been  _ inside _ Crowley's flat before. For whatever reason, in all their years of friendship, it had always been off-limits. 

"There aren't any bloody books in my flat," Crowley replies, rolling his eyes. Despite his annoyed tone, he laces their fingers together.

Aziraphale tries to ignore the anxiety in his chest. He doesn't know from where it originates; if it's the excitement of today, the fear of tomorrow, or the memory of Crowley breaking his heart. 

The bus lets them off on the curb near Crowley's apartment building. Their hands have since drifted apart, and Aziraphale feels cold with the distance between them. Crowley's hands are buried in his pockets, and he isn't looking at him. Aziraphale can tell he's nervous. But what about?

As they stand in the lift, Aziraphale glances at him from the corner of his eyes. 

He reaches out and tentatively takes his hand again, but Crowley pulls it away to lean on the wall of the lift. 

He leads him down the grey hallway with the doors that all look the same to the flat Aziraphale stood outside of with a basket several years ago. The building has changed only a little. Despite the long-lived nature of angels and demons, he knows that he and Crowley have changed immensely only in the past twenty or so years. 

Crowley lingers at the door for a moment, as if having to convince himself to let Aziraphale across the threshold. Now he worries he's intruding. Even though Crowley had invited him in the first place, he considers backing away, telling him not to mind it, that he would find somewhere else to be until his trial. 

Before he can find the words, let alone the courage to say them, Crowley unlocks the door and, with a wave of his hand, invites him inside. 

The flat is much grayer than Aziraphale had expected. It has many decorations, but seems to be made entirely of concrete. It must be difficult on Crowley's feet, walking and standing in here all the time. He looks around as Crowley takes off his jacket and tosses it on the back of the couch. "Make yourssself at home, Angel," he says, the involuntary hiss in his voice giving away his nervousness. 

Aziraphale slips out of his own jacket and hangs it on a nearby coatrack. "It certainly seems like the type of place you might live," Aziraphale says, desperate to fill the silence. "I never took you for a collector. Seems almost... sentimental."

"I'm not sssentimental. I just like  _ things _ ."

The brutal minimalism of the flat obviously disproves that, but he knows better than to bring it up. 

"Drink?" Crowley offers. 

"Have you got any cocoa?"

Crowley waves his hand. "I do now." He heads into the kitchen, getting out a mug and a glass. Into one he pours some wine, and then he starts to heat some milk for cocoa. It is good to know that after all the years they had known one another, Crowley had at least learned that Aziraphale likes his cocoa with milk, not water. 

Aziraphale sits primly on the edge of a living chair, looking around at the decorations. Rare, ancient-looking paintings; statuettes of marble and bronze; tapestries and intricate fabric art. A few things he recognizes from stories or shenanigans they had gotten into together. 

Crowley comes over with the mug and hands it to Aziraphale before collapsing on another couch. He leans his head onto the back of the seat cushion, looking beyond exhausted. Aziraphale watches him for a moment, blowing on his cocoa and taking a few tentative sips from it. 

"You don't sleep, do you Angel?" he asks after a moment. 

"Not usually, no."

"Good. Means I won't have to make up the guest bedroom."

He stands, downing the glass of wine in one long gulp. "You can find some books in my study. Nothing like you're used to, I'm sure, but hopefully you'll be able to find something to entertain you. C'mon." He turns and leads Aziraphale down a hallway to a room whose only door seems to be a rotating slab of concrete. 

As they enter the hallway, they walk by a large statue, and Aziraphale pauses to examine it. “What’s this?” he asks, a cheeky smile spreading across his face. 

“Ngk — nothing! It was a gift. It’s just a statue. Do you want to see the bloody books?”

“I highly doubt this was a gift to you, my dear. It seems like a commission.” 

Crowley grabs him around the wrist. “Get away from the fucking statue.”

He laughs. “I’m not judging you, Crowley, I think it’s  _ lovely _ .”

“That wasn’t the response I expected you to have,” he mumbles.

“Oh?”

“I was expecting you to be more…”

“Scandalized? My dear boy, after all these years, do you really think I’ve been shut up in my bookshop reading puritanical virgin literature?  _ Please _ .”

Crowley makes another strangled noise and pulls him away from the statue. 

They pass through a room filled with greenery, and Aziraphale stops, admiring the plants. 

"You never told me you kept plants!" he exclaims, delighted. "Perhaps  _ you  _ should have been the Dowlings' gardener."

Crowley turns and sends him a look, and Aziraphale swears a few of the plants actually wither. 

"Do you want the books or not?" 

Still smiling slightly, he follows Crowley into the study. The demon has stopped suddenly, standing in the middle of the room. The place is a mess; papers — seeming to be ripped out of a book — are still strewn across the room, there's a puddle of water on the floor, and some kind of disgusting blond wig is on the desk. 

"What happened in here?" he asks. 

"Hastur and Ligur," Crowley replies simply. 

He waves his hand and the papers float up and light on fire one by one. The puddle dries itself up. Crowley opens a window and flings the wig out of it like a frisbee.

"Now," he says. He goes to the bookshelf and pulls a few down. "These might interest you." 

Azirapphale comes to stand beside him, looking at the books on the shelf. A surprising amount of them seem to have something to do with astronomy. A few others are plays and things, and a few histories. He doubts Crowley has ever opened any of these. The astronomy books, though; they have worn spines where the others are in almost perfect condition. 

"Do you like astronomy, my dear?"

Crowley snorts and crosses the room. "I dabble. Come on, Angel, I want to go to bed."

He looks over his shoulder and sees him hovering anxiously around the door. Obviously being in here makes him nervous. 

He follows him out of the study, past the statue, and back into the sitting room. "Make yourself comfortable, read all the books, or whatever. TV remote's in the drawer.  _ I'm _ going to bed."

"Crowley, don't you think we should... try and figure out how we're going to survive tomorrow?"

He turns, palms out. "I don't know if we're  _ meant _ to survive tomorrow, Aziraphale."

“So you’re just giving up?”

“I just want to bloody  _ sleep _ , Aziraphale. I want to lay in bed and  _ relax _ . I've got muscles that haven't unclenched since two-thousand fucking seven. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow."

Aziraphale sighs. He takes a few steps forward and reaches out for Crowley's hand. They only touch for a moment before he pulls his hand away. 

"Later, okay? I'm tired."

Aziraphale looks up at him. "Alright Crowley. I'll see you when you wake up. Sleep well." He brings his other hand up to cradle the book he's holding against his arm. Crowley turns and retreats to where the bedroom must be. 

Aziraphale sits down on the couch and opens the book. 

A few hours pass. He goes through three more cups of cocoa, finishes one book and is just beginning another, when he hears a shuffle and a  _ thud _ from the bedroom. He stands up, frowning. He keeps still, listening for further noise. His heart is pounding, and he’s convinced it’s demons or angels come to drag one of them away.

There's a small noise, some kind of squeak. He marks the page and sets it down, heading to the bedroom. He presses his ear to the door and shuts his eyes, listening. 

A quiet whimper, barely picked up by his angelic hearing, a shuffle of fabric. He reaches down to open the door. "Crowley?" he asks.

He steps into the room. There's a  _ pop _ and Crowley is nowhere to be found. Instead, a thick bulge slithers underneath the silk bedsheets. "Crowley?" he repeats. No answer, of course. 

Over the years, Aziraphale has learned that when Crowley is taken by surprise, he can sometimes lose hold of his human-shaped form. It has also happened — though only a few times — when he is particularly comfortable and tired. 

He takes a few steps into the room, approaching the bed. "Crowley?"

No response. Tentatively, he sits on the bed, reaching out a hand and resting it on the lump underneath the blankets. He feels the muscles tense under his touch. "Crowley, it's just me. It's alright… Do you want to tell me what happened?"

He's never known Crowley to be prone to nightmares, but then again, perhaps there is a reason he tries not to fall asleep in his presence. 

Crowley doesn't turn back to his human form, but instead, he slithers out from beneath the sheets and coils in Aziraphale's arms, his cool serpentine head resting on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Oh, my dear," he whispers, stroking along his scales gently. "It's alright. You've nothing to be afraid of. I've got you." He knows Crowley can speak in his snake form, and he knows Crowley knows that, but for the time being, he's alright with pretending that he can only understand him, and not respond. Slowly, and still supporting the old serpent in his arms, he crawls into Crowley's bed, sitting against the headboard, and brings the blankets up to cover them. "I'll stay with you as long as you like," he whispers. Crowley slips away down onto the pillows, and Aziraphale lays down. They tangle back together, serpentine body cuddling close against him. Aziraphale shuts his eyes, trying to remember how to sleep. 

Eventually he does, and he passes into unconsciousness with Crowley held close up against him. He doesn't know when, exactly, it happens, but when he wakes up briefly a few hours later, Crowley has resumed his human form, and is tucked into his chest, looking, at least, peaceful. 

Comforted in this, Aziraphale falls back asleep. 

"Faces!"

The sound and abrupt movement shocks Aziraphale out of his sleep and he sits up. 

Crowley has sprung out of bed and is pacing back and forth along the room. 

"What in the name of sanity are you talking about?" he demands. 

"It's the prophecy, Angel!" he says. He comes over and takes him by the hands, as if emphasizing his point. "Agnes said we have to choose our faces wisely. I know how we can outsmart our Head Offices!"

For the first several hours of his life after leaving Hell, Aziraphale is a constant state of anxiety. He's waiting, unable to focus, unable to distract himself, for the door to blow inward and Gabriel and Sandalphon to burst in. He knows, generally, what happened during his "execution," thanks to Crowley's retelling, but it does little to quell his fears. Just because the Archangels were intimidated by their little performance doesn't necessarily mean they're free. 

He wonders if Crowley is suffering from the same paranoia. 

Hours pass anxiously; eventually they turn to days. Suddenly, two weeks have come and gone with Aziraphale meandering about the shop, hardly even bothering to discourage humans from buying his books, without so much as a peep from upstairs. 

"Perhaps we're safe after all!" Aziraphale says aloud, standing at the door of the shop and looking out at the crowded Soho street.

The woman looking through biographies nearby glances at him, and he smiles nervously. "So sorry," he says. "Please, don't let me disturb you."

Face burning, he retreats to the backroom to call Crowley up. They haven't really spoken since that day they had dinner at the Ritz. Through some unspoken agreement, they are giving one another space, but Aziraphale doesn't need space anymore. He doesn't  _ want _ it. He wants to go and get sushi and get ridiculously drunk in his backroom. He wants to spin Crowley around and waltz with him because they are  _ free _ . 

Crowley picks up after the second ring, voice eager, though he tries to hide it. "What is it?" he asks. 

Aziraphale wonders if that's him trying to maintain a cool facade, or if he's worried that something has finally happened to break the silence. 

"Do you want to go and get lunch?" he asks. "I'm craving sushi."

"Sure. I'll come pick you up in a bit, alright?"

"Lovely, my dear. Thank you." There's silence while Aziraphale waits for Crowley to hang up. 

"Anything from your Head Office?"

"No. What about yours?"

"Nothing."

"So we've done it, then."

"It would seem so."

The smile is clear in Crowley's voice. "I'll see you in a few, my Angel."

There is a  _ click _ as he hangs up, and it takes a moment for Aziraphale to realize the addition to the nickname.  _ My _ Angel.

"Oh," he whispers, his chest feeling fluttery and light as air. 

He replaces the phone in its receiver and returns to the bookshop proper. He starts ushering people out, telling them that something has come up and that he must close the shop early. A few of them give him annoyed looks, but he's too euphoric to pay them any mind. 

Aziraphale is in his back room when Crowley comes through the door. "Angel, you ready? I left the car on."

He all but flies from the back, taking Crowley into his arms and kissing him. Crowley makes a choked noise in surprise and Aziraphale pulls away. 

He rearranges his arms so they're hugging, his eyes shut. "I love you."

There's a moment of silence while they stand like this. Then, Crowley buries his face into his hair. "I love you too, Aziraphale."

They kiss again, but this one is different than all the others have been; it's more sure, it's less afraid. It's secure in the knowledge that they are safe, at least for right now. The cats are all out of their bags; what's to keep them from disobeying just a little more?

As they pull away, Crowley smiles at him, cupping his face in his hand. "Come on, you idiot. Let's go get some sushi."

Aziraphale elbows him. "Alright."

Throughout the day, their hands find one another; over the gearshift in the Bentley, across the table during lunch, as they lounge together on the sofa talking. They have been forcing themselves to be physically separate for too long; now they are making up for lost time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!! I'm so excited to finally be able to post it. Don't forget to leave a comment if you enjoyed, and listen to olive2read's wonderful podfic!


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